


Blood on the Streets of Paris

by MaplePucks



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Musicals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6348502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaplePucks/pseuds/MaplePucks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After spending all night worried about the boys at the barricades, Francis is rudely dragged to the sight of the massacre by hateful soldiers. The Children of France, his beloved citizens, gunned down, lying in their blood on the cobblestones. Visions of the Reign of Terror and Joan of Arc. Live long enough, history truly does repeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood on the Streets of Paris

The Frenchman hadn't slept at all the previous night, he was too much in pain to even being to think about sleep. Those boys, those poor school boys, trying to carry out revolution. A new revolution. Why? Didn't they know their fathers before them had tried but hadn't been so successful. There was not a chance that they could pull this off and still they tried. Francis knew why they were doing it, they were doing it for him. For the passion they still felt in there hearts for the way France could be. They way they saw France in their ideologically sensitive, naive eyes. 

Those Children of the Barricades. They saw the world as children do, full of promise and hope. Full of possibility. Not as Francis saw it. A cold, bleak hating reminder that humans are cruel to each other and there was no hope of anything better on this spinning rock. Not one thing. Wars would still wage, poverty would still be rampant and those boys at the barricade. 

They would all stay dead. Cold and lifeless as the bullets that ripped through their chests and his own. Francis felt every hope die, every light leave his beloved city of Paris. He had felt it all night and into the dawn. His Children had hope snatched away. 

It didn't as a surprise that as the last of his Children fell, soldiers appeared at his door and grabbed him, forcing him out into the streets. This was just the way he was treated nowadays. A pawn, a representation of the way things were during the Reign of Terror. A vision of a past better left in the past and in the graves with the other revolutionaries. Francis couldn't help the blue, white and red he wore proudly. 

He was France, dammit. He was France its self and he was proud of those school boys, even if he knew it had been hopeless. Even if he sense it was hopeless, even if he knew this was the outcome they were going to get. Secretly, he had urged them on. Sow the seed. Somewhere, someone would listen. Someone would water the seed, make revolution grow again. Behead the King. Behead the King again. 

Set him free again. 

The soldiers lead him through the streets of Paris, roughly with his hands behind his back. Not tied, they were never restrained, he always had the power to use them but he couldn't fight back. He knew that. He was frozen by the fear of even trying. And for good reason, the hatred he received for even walking. Mother's, angry and tearful, screaming about loss. Young boys! They were just young boys! How could you?! How could you lead them into doing this?! How could you let them think they had a chance?! You monster! You ugly, sinful monster! It's you! You deserve to be bleeding dead in the street. No one would even wipe up your blood! Spit flew into his face as his head hung low, if he used his hands to fight, they'd be even more angry. 

He hadn't done any of those things. Francis had never even met any of those boys before. But they were right. He was a monster for not trying to stop them. He was a monster and still he was proud. For a moment, the old France was shining through. Joan of Arc all over again. People called him a monster for not stopping her either. He hung his head to hide his remembering smile. This was the same, history again. Live long enough, it truly does repeat. 

In a dark alley, not far from the city center, but far enough that no one there had heard the cries of revolution, Francis was pushed down at a pile of rubbish. Chairs, broken wagons, odds and inns from the surrounding shops and homes. A hastily built barricade if he had ever seen one. And trickling from underneath, onto his clothes was a steady stream of blood. His Children's blood, those poor young students. Had this really been his fault after all? Could he have prevented this blood from being split with a single word from his lips? 

Would he have been able to utter it if he had tried? He wanted revolution every bit as much as they did. He didn't stop them but could he have done it? A haunting thought, the kind that last forever. 

As if being pushed into blood wasn't enough, the soldiers then grabbed him and dragged him around the barricade to see the horror. The outright massacre that had taken place. Lined up in a row down the street, shoulder to shoulder, the young students. Dead, some of them their eyes were still wide open, frozen in the horrific realization that their revolution was over at the greatest price. All of them were gone, Francis felt his chest tighten as he walked down the line. He should have stopped this. 

Maybe he thought they would all live, that everything would be fine. The Army certainly wouldn't kill virtually innocent children that hadn't done anything wro-- 

Francis froze as he got to the end of the line. No. No certainly not, his eyes were deceiving him, they had to be. They must have been. But he bent down and touched the girl's cold face and the little boys hand. They were real. And they were dead just like the others. How could that have happened?! A girl, so young and beautiful, Eponine. He knew her name as soon as he touched her, the gift and curse of nations. With a touch he knew her history and ending. 

Parents who couldn't care less, living out on the streets. Worse yet, a boy who wouldn't even glance at her, yet had her track down the girl of his dreams. Love, the most painful kind, the kind unnoticed by the object. Then, her life taken because she had stopped the bullet meant for him. Tragic, unnerving. A cost of revolution Francis hadn't spoke up about. 

Beside her, the younger still little boy by the name of Gavroche. A fiery young monsieur in the making. He shouldn't have been with the revolutionaries. Why did they allow such a young, no. That wasn't it. They tried to convince him to leave, to seek shelter. A young man named Marius even sent him on an errand in effort to get him away from the fighting. 

Francis picked up the little boy and held him in his arms, brushing back his hair and then held him close to his chest. Sobs, thick and heavy echoed in the small alley as Francis doubled over. “Mon Dieu, forgive moi. Je suis désolé, je suis désolé, je suis désolé… “ He sobbed, holding the little boy and taking the hand of Eponine. He had failed them, failed them as a nation. Failed them as their hope for a bright future. He wasn't the dawn they needed to end the black of night they were suffering in. 

No solider dared to come over and console him, he knew they wouldn't. Inspector Javert would have their heads for such an insubordinate action. But neither did Francis want anyone to try. He was alone in this, no one was going to understand his pain but him. And he wouldn't have it any other way. Even to his darkest enemy, he wouldn't wish the horrid reality that came with his life as a nation. 

This is what it meant, to bear the echos of the past, feeling his people's hurt and agonizing in their tragedy. Why couldn't there be peace? Why did students have to form back alley revolutions that rewarded them so little in ways of progress. Please, he thought, setting Gavroche down. Don't let them have died for nothing. Make them, let them have purpose. Let the seed have been sown. Some where. Anywhere. Anyone. Please. 

He walked down the line, making sure to gently touch each of them. Combeferre. Prouvaire. Enjolas. All of them. Histories and ends, triumphs-- how little they were-- and defeats. He wanted all of them in his heart, so that his boys, his Children of the Barricades would live on in his heart at least. Never would he forget that they fought in this fight, they have the right to soar free. Singing and whispering words of revolution into every Frenchman's ear. 

Let the seed be sown. Let the people sing. 

When he was done, a brutish solider grabbed him again, shoving him into a broken chair. A rifle was pointed at his face and Francis closed his eyes waiting for the well deserved blast. He had faced the guillotine once before this would be nothing but a moment in his life. Seconds ticked by like hours before he heard the hiss of disdain. 

“Coward. At least zhese boys 'ad zhe decency to look zheir death in zhe eyes.” He officer spat, lowing his weapon and turning his back on Francis. “You aren't to move an inch until Inspector Javert returns. 'e would like a word with you.” 

“Oui, monsieur.” Francis replied back meekly, his trembling hands folded in his lap. What else could he do? He was a coward. It should be him lying in the street. 

Still, he was proud of his Children. And nothing was going to change that in his mind even if they hadn't managed to change the world overnight as they had dreamed.


End file.
